


A field guide to crows: Zevran from A to Z

by NotSafeForWork



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Antivan Massage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 10,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotSafeForWork/pseuds/NotSafeForWork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I couldn't resist the Character alphabet exploration meme that Combination_NC started, and since I am replaying Origins right now it had to be Zevran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Antiva

The bitterly cold wind tore the sigh from Zevran's mouth as he propped his boots up next to the fire. The snow in the ruins above Haven had been plentiful and deep, and the soft Antivan leather was soaked through.

He settled in to allow the heat to slowly drive the dampness from his clothes and the cold from his bones. The assassin was still unsettled after his experience in the Gauntlet and his mind kept wanting to drift away from the present to wander over the landscapes of memories he had long left undisturbed.

As the leather began to dry its already pungent odor grew stronger and when he closed his eyes the smell, combined with and the warmth of the flames and the fainter smell of blood that they could never wash off entirely, caused all the years to fall away so that it was as if he were back in Antiva in the apprentice's lodgings. As if he, one of the most promising of all the apprentices, was sitting on the window ledge where he could catch a glimpse of the bay through the rooftops of the buildings below, flush with the victory of completing his first solo contract. Knowing that he had done well, and that all the mistakes he had made in accomplishing it were known only to himself. He was certain that he wouldn't remain an apprentice for much longer and that one day, one of the Master's chairs at the high table in the Guildhall would be meant for him. Breathing in the ever-present smell of leather, his future had felt as bright and full of promise as the warm Antivan sun.

“Maker, I don't know how you can sleep while breathing in that stench.”

He smiled and opened his eyes, looking across the fire to where Alistair had seated himself. Before he could respond the big warrior waved one hand around dismissively and said,

“I know, I know, it reminds you of Antiva. You know Zevran, you say you miss your homeland but everything you have to say about it makes it sound terrible. If it's everything you say it is, I don't know how you can miss it.”

The ex-templar was toying with the chalice that Alim had given him after they had gone back to Ostragar. Zevran kept his gaze trained upon the silver cup as he contemplated his answer, his normal glibness having momentarily deserted him. Finally he looked down at his boots with a fond smile and said,

“Yes, well...some things, you care about them not because of what they are, but for what they mean to you.”


	2. B is for Betrayal

Even as Taliesin grabs her by the hair and yanks her head backward, Rinna’s beautiful, frightened eyes remain locked on Zevran’s. As if they were the only two in the room, she directs all her pleas of innocence at him. She hasn’t bothered to wipe his spittle off of her cheek and it clings there, mixing with the tears and adding another layer to the violent disgust that is worming its way through his insides.

As Taliesin's blade approaches her throat the pleas turn into an endless litany of love for him _te amo te amo te amo_ and the pain inside of him is almost unbearable. His heart cries out for him to save her, to forgive her, or at the very least to turn away so he doesn’t have to bear witness to this.

But he has no mercy for his heart either, that treacherous organ with its even more treacherous feelings. It has betrayed him as much as she has and so by sheer will he turns the rictus of his face into a vicious grin and never looks away from her face even as the light fades entirely from her eyes, making them almost unrecognizable.


	3. C is for Complication

Zevran stands back from the fire just enough so that his vision isn't hampered by being too near the flames. From here he has a good view of Alim and Leliana as they talk, heads close together, on the other side of the campfire.

As he observes them conversing he notes what a well-matched pair they seem to be. Her hair is a truer red than the Warden's dark auburn, but they are of a height, and her slenderness is almost graceful enough to be an elf's. They also have the same apparent sincerity shining out of their blue eyes, although he can't help but wonder if the bard's isn't just a skillful act.

Alim says something that makes her laugh, and her delighted giggle floats over the campsite. The fact that he has to fight back the urge to go interrupt them is his first indication that things are beginning to get...complicated between him and the Warden. As much as he is enjoying their flirtation, it would be best if he were to offer to step aside before this niggling feeling of possessiveness grows into something he can no longer ignore.

In truth, he would be doing his Warden a favor. Although he and Leliana are alike in many ways, the bard seems to have escaped her past undamaged, unlike himself. He knows the bards of Orlais are involved in as many dirty dealings as the Crows, and yet she can still speak seriously of salvation, and hope, and...and love. Zevran sighs, and steels himself for the conversation he knows he must have. Alim deserves someone who still believes those things are possible.


	4. D is for Dalish

When he is nine he is still resistant to the idea of becoming a Crow; fighting the trainers and earning himself extra beatings along with more…inventive punishments. When the other apprentices start gossiping about a band of Dalish seen camped near the city he runs away, as simple as that.

In the brothel where he was raised, the whores had told him that his mother was Dalish and had given him a pair of gloves that she had brought with her when she left her clan. When they were feeling indulgent they had told him many stories about her, about things she liked and what made her laugh, but they couldn’t tell him about that part of his heritage because she had never spoken of it.

Life with the Dalish is not what he expected at all. While most of them are tolerant of him and some even seem impressed that he chose to leave the city for the Dalish at such a young age, there are quite a few who are cold or downright hostile.

He isn’t used to being out in the weather, to the work that comes with transient living, to going hungry when the hunters come home empty-handed, to the _dirt_. Any remarks he makes to that effect are taken for complaints, and some of the less-friendly Dalish deride him for it. They speak to each other as if he weren’t there, saying that any elf raised in a _shemlen_ city is bound to be weak. Thinking of the punishments, of the torture he has endured so far in the name of conditioning, it is hard to bite his tongue and say nothing but he manages.

The end finally comes when he pushes for information about his mother. Zevran had told the story of his birth as soon as he had arrived, wanting to establish his connection to them, to the people. He has no idea if this is her clan or if they know of her, but whenever he asks about her his questions are just brushed aside and ignored.

Then one day one of hunt leaders who has taken a particular dislike to him snaps and tells him that any woman who would leave the clan to go live with the _shem_ as their whore is no real Dalish, and never was. Her name would not be spoken again among the true people.

He leaves that night to return to Antiva City and the only thing he takes with him are her gloves. If his mother is not Dalish, then neither is he.

He is Antivan.


	5. E is for Endearment

From the beginning he calls Alim _my dear warden._ It means nothing.

It is yet another technique he learned as a Crow; lulling the mark into a sense of intimacy by speaking as if that intimacy already exists. Among the Crows themselves such terms were used ironically; _my dearest comrade_ directed at the greatest of rivals. Aggression disguised as pleasantries. The tone as well as the language meant to obfuscate rather than illuminate its true intention.

As the flirtation grows between them more endearments are used: _mi caro, mi tesoro, mi querido._ All said without thought, all drawn from the arsenal he has long used to survive, to thrive. All meaning nothing.

The first time he answers his warden with _Si, mi amor_ he startles himself. His breathing hitches and the casualness of his following words comes only with effort. _Mi amor_ is a pretense which has never been necessary, some combination of lust and affection having been enough to open any door barred against him so far.

The echoes of those words settle into the back of his mind and begin to agitate. Words he is unable to forget or deny, as much as he might want to. Words that mean something.


	6. F is for Funeral

The snow soaks him almost to his knees as he paces restlessly between the snowdrifts and the high, flat areas that the wind has blown clean.

In a fit of uncharacteristic irritation he had wandered away from the others, refusing to help as they built the pyre. He watches from a distance as they place the king’s body on top and set the wood alight, the three of them standing with their heads bowed long after Alistair has finished speaking.

Assassins do not attend funerals.

There is a certain breed that does, of course. Those that feed off the pain of others and delight in the crying of widows and mothers, of children’s faces wet with tears. They are few however, as that kind of sadism often brings a lack of professionalism that the Crows reputation requires.

For the rest, like Zevran, the hunt ends when the knife slides home or the effects of the poison kick in. Dwelling on what comes after brings the danger of remorse, of consequence. The focus of the Crows training is taking a person and making a weapon out of them, and weapons do not mourn.

After the fire burns out the four of them begin the hike back to camp, Zevran in the lead so he doesn’t have to see any of their faces. He knows what he will see there, what unaccustomed things he already feels burrowing under his skin. Grief does not exist in a vacuum, and sorrowing over a new loss usually leads to revisiting other, older losses. He does not want to know of their losses any more than he wants to revisit his own.

He knows that his irritation is unreasonable, but it is honest. His life has seen so many changes recently, and there has not been any time to sort through what all of it means. He is ready to stop belonging to the Crows, but perhaps he is not yet ready to stop being a Crow, to stop being a weapon. He is not yet ready to learn how to mourn.


	7. G is for Gratitude

In Antiva, whenever any known Crow entered any public establishment there were a few standard responses they could expect to receive. Fear was the most common one, indicated by a refusal to make eye contact and the pretense that the assassins went unseen. Lust ran a close second, as the many talents of the Crows were well-known and there were many who sought a little danger to spice up their drab lives. Hatred and resentment were familiar as well, as many of the residents of Antiva had a friend or a relative who had fallen to the assassins guild.

To a Crow, all of those responses were welcome. Fear, hatred, lust all served to keep them sharp, and to hone their skills in one way or another. Those were the feelings that the Crows reputation was built on.

So when he entered the crowded tavern in Redcliffe he wasn’t surprised to feel eyes on him, but he did sense something…unusual in the atmosphere of the tavern.

He sauntered up to the bar, making note of those in the room in the periphery of his vision. Although the pub buzzed with conversation, it had grown noticeably quiet amongst those who were closest to him, adding to his wariness. Alim and Alistair had been closeted with Arl Eamon for hours now, so he had wandered down into the village looking for a distraction, but a fight with the local citizenry was not his first choice for entertainment today.

It wasn’t a fight he sensed brewing in the pub however, it was something different. He ordered a drink from the bartender, who brought it back with a cheerful grin. Setting it down on the counter in front of him, he spoke in a loud voice that was obviously used to competing with the background noise of his patrons.

“Oy, you’re that other elf that’s with the Wardens, ain’t you?”

Zevran knew there was really no point in denying it, and the man’s tone was friendly enough, so he smiled graciously as he replied,

“Indeed. My name is Zevran and I have been assisting the Wardens as they try to end this Blight”

As if that were some kind of signal, several of the patrons who had been watching him moved over to sit beside him at the bar, or to drag their chairs closer once the bar was full. It ran contrary to his instincts to let himself be surrounded, yet he didn’t see or sense any malice in them at all. So while he mentally plotted an escape route just in case, he didn’t move from his spot.

One of the serving girls stopped beside him and laid her hand on his arm. Automatically, his face began assuming a lecherous expression as he turned to her, but what he saw in her face wasn’t lust. It was open curiosity, and that something else that he didn’t recognize. She sounded eager and amazed as she spoke,

“My cousin’s a soldier up at the castle, and he said there’s armies gathering outside town to help us fight. Dwarves from Orzammar, he said! And a whole bunch of Dalish elves and mages from the circle. He said the mages say you Wardens killed a big demon up at the tower, that was killing off all the mages, is that true?”

He nodded, but before he could speak a babble of voices rose up from the group surrounding him. They were all speaking at him and speaking at one another, all at once.

“Them snooty elves say you lot killed werewolves. _Werewolves!”_

“Did you really bring back Andraste’s ashes to save the Arl? The real ashes?”

“My brother said it was the Wardens what saved his caravan from a bunch of those darkspawn. He said this blond elf with the tattoos killed an _ogre_ -cut his head clean off with that fancy sword!”

A big man with the rough look of a farmer spoke up from the back,

“I wouldn’t doubt it. They fought off those dead things that attacked the town, didn’t they? And without no one getting killed too!”

It finally dawned on him just what he was seeing in their expressions, in their eyes. It was…gratitude. Inwardly he shook his head at how very different his life had become in such a short while. In his previous life, if anyone had told him that the gratitude of a bunch of villagers would make him feel…well, anything but indifferent, he would have laughed in their face. Now, it was as if he had just been given a gift whose shape and purpose were unfamiliar to him, but whose worth was immediately apparent.

So when an older man seated beside him gave a loud snort and said,

“Won’t mean a tinker’s damn when it comes to fighting this Blight. I’ve listened to all the old stories, and I know what comes with the Blight. An archdemon! That’s like a dragon! You think you Wardens can kill something like that?”

He knew exactly how to reply, what gift he could give them in return. A gift as strange to him as the one they had given him. Zevran stood and turned so that he was facing most of them, and their questioning eyes all turned to him, waiting to see how he would answer. His smile grew even broader as he raised his voice to be heard,

“Ah, my friends, of course we will kill this Archdemon. Let me tell you how our Wardens killed the _first_ dragon we came across, and then I will tell you how we killed the _second_ one too.”

He would give them hope.


	8. H is for Home

Grandmaster Zevran Arainai leaned his forearms against the balcony railing of his newly acquired _palacio_ and filled his lungs with the warm night air, letting it out again with a sigh. It was the first dwelling he had ever had where you could actually smell the fabled flowers of Antiva, rather than other, less pleasant scents.

His gaze drifted south across the water, and he sighed again before he caught himself. He was a fool, and a twice-damned one at that. He had achieved his goal in coming back here, had apparently made himself miserable in the process, and he had only himself to blame.

At the time it had seemed like his only option, but there were always other options, even if they only became clear in retrospect. He should have never have left his warden.

It was such a little thing to ask really, to be free of the Crows and to perhaps be happy. To just be able to keep what he was holding in his hands, and nothing more. That hope was shattered when he returned to his room after Alistair and Anora’s wedding to see the black feather lying on the middle of his pillow.

Once again he was made to realize the Crows would not give up. Even so, he had merely increased his watchfulness, unwilling to be driven away from the one he had sworn his loyalty to. His loyalty and his love, even if not in so many words. After all, there were so many people coming and going from the palace, and his presence at Alim’s side was well known, so it was not such a surprise that they would find out where he was sleeping. Indeed, for a long time nothing else happened to raise his suspicions and he dared to hope it might have been a last gesture, just to show that the Crows never forget.

But then, on the way to Amaranthine they had stopped at a small inn, and when he had retired to their room ahead of his warden he had found another feather. This one had a tiny splash of red on the quill that left a mark on the pillowcase, and when Alim came upstairs he had finally confessed his fears because whatever else might come between them, it would not be his own lies.

His lover had begged him to remain so that he could sort out the Wardens first and then go together to Antiva, but at the time he just couldn’t conceive of it. He couldn’t even say for certain why that was so. Concern for Alim, definitely. A little bit of arrogance and a desire to prove himself his lover’s equal, possibly. But ultimately, it was his fear that his warden could only deal with his past when viewed from afar. That seeing him here, amongst his former compatriots and all their treachery, Alim might realize what a poor choice he had made. Now, with the perspective distance often brings, he knew that this fear arose from whatever it was inside him that had made him doubt Rinna so easily. He was a twice-damned fool indeed.

His intention had only been to find the source of the threat, whoever it was within the Crows that couldn’t let go of their grudge. Once that was finished he would return to his warden. But seeking the source had led him further and further up the chain, until at last he had found himself toe-to-toe with Grandmaster Giacomo. The Grandmaster had been a prideful man, one who considered the reputation of the Crows to be equal to his personal glory, and he had been unable to accept the notion of a “former” Crow rising to fame.

So he had died on Zevran’s blades, and now, like it or not, he stood in his place. It was like a trap he had sprung on himself; the Grandmaster of the Antivan Crows belonged in Antiva, no matter where his heart was.

Such thoughts brought back a memory of his warden and the others talking around the fire one night, of the people and places they missed. The bard had quoted…someone, and had said that “maybe home isn’t a place, but a feeling. When you look around yourself and think, what would I ever look for in the world except _this_ , again?”

At the time he was certain that his home was Antiva, but now here in Antiva, he was even more certain that home lay far to the south in the form of an auburn-haired elf.

He heard the messenger at the front gates long before he made it up the stairs, his watchfulness more heightened than ever. With a final sigh he pushed away from the railing and when the young boy pushed the letter into his hand he was wearing his customary smile once more.

A smile which turned into a delighted laugh as he read the letter in his hands, his heart swelling as he thanked the Maker for his luck. He may have damned himself twice, but they did say the third time was the charm. This time he would make sure that the third time was for keeps as well.

_Retired my command. Ship sailing for Antiva in two weeks._

_-A_

It seemed that home would be coming to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "someone" Leliana was quoting (er, paraphrasing? flat out bastardizing?) was Peter S Beagle in The Last Unicorn, because occasionally I like to dial the nerdishness up to 11.


	9. I is for Invigorate

Dead inside.

Not an unfamiliar phrase to an assassin, but never one truly applicable to him. Until he discovered Rinna’s innocence, and the Master’s indifference.

Until then he had only thrived in the clutches of the guild. All the misery, the deprivation, the struggles against his fellow apprentices had only served to hone him to the sharpest edge. His pride was rooted in pain. He wore his scars like diamonds; not nearly as rare but no less precious. Just the right accessories for this particular dance.

After Rinna, the dance seems stale, his movements leaden. No joy, no pride, nothing quickening; just an automatic response that keeps him in motion. Dead inside.

When the contract first comes up for the Fereldan Wardens, when he first hears talk of the Blight, something flickers briefly, a spark that doesn’t catch. The drama of it, the saga, the potential for glory doesn’t even penetrate. Now, it just seems like the simplest way to die.

But he doesn’t die. A simple act of mercy, unasked for, and undeserved. He swears loyalty to a pair of piercing blue eyes, and the machine that is his body remains animate. He follows, he serves, he starts to feel as if he has awakened in a different world.

During battle the Warden smiles. Not with malice, not to frighten. He is enjoying that testing of the bones, he too is a master at this dance. That smile strikes against the flint inside, and this spark catches.

When Zevran jumps down from the back of the ogre’s corpse, he is stinking with darkspawn but his laughter is not faked. He is met with an answering smile from his Warden. Deep within, his blood has once again begun to sing.


	10. J is for Judgement

The room he is taken to in order to meet his new patrons is small and cramped, as they almost always are. Dark rooms, servant's entrances, unlit tables in seedy taverns; for the most part people who hire assassins feel obligated to cling to these atmospheric banalities. As if skulking around like this ever drew _less_ attention.

His favorite patrons have been those who are wise enough to know better, or at least imaginative enough to avoid the cliches. He had been hired on the dance floor during a ball once, and had another patron who was fond of meeting for lunch in a busy marketplace cafe. His favorite had been the noble who had invited him along for a family picnic. He had spent a day in the sunshine teaching the youngest son how to juggle oranges, and had gone home with his payment in the bottom of a basket of leftovers.

He looks at the faces of the two men who have hired them and thinks to himself that it is unlikely they even have picnics in Ferelden. At least, he can't imagine either of these two enjoying something so frivolous.

The smaller man with the weasel's face is of a kind commonplace in Antiva; indeed, nobles such as he are what keep the Crows in power. Arrogant and grasping, with a sense of entitlement strong enough to make any atrocity seem justified. He is the one who does most of the talking.

In spite of that, it is the larger man that Zevran pays attention to, his instincts telling him that this is the truly formidable one. Obviously a powerful warrior, he paces restlessly in the tiny room, only breaking into the conversation once to stress that what is most important is keeping the Wardens from reaching Orlais. The rabid light in his eyes, the set of his face, and the way his lip curls up over his teeth as when he pronounces _Orlais_...it all reeks of a zealotry that raises the gooseflesh under his leather armor. Such fervor is dangerous, blinding and relentless. 

When he leaves the room he is aware of a vague feeling unease. A weasel and a fanatic, hiring him to dispose of the last of a fabled group of heroes. He shrugs that feeling off determinedly. After all, it doesn't change what he truly came here to do, and who is he to judge?


	11. K is for Kisses

The first time Alim kisses him in public he is taken off guard. He manages a genuinely surprised “Oh, what is this?” because he can’t think of anything more clever to say.

He is actually grateful to the witch for talking of _vomit_ , because it allows him to make a jest, and then the moment has passed and Alim is walking toward the next merchant’s stall.

Zevran does not know how to cope with gestures of affection. As far as he has been concerned, kissing and love-making went hand-in-hand from prelude to denouement, but did not exist outside of the performance itself.

Casual kisses in public are another matter; they imply intention, familiarity, possession.

He discovers he rather likes it.


	12. L is for Lechery

Part of it was that he just couldn’t help himself. Innuendo and blatant suggestion had been the medium that he communicated with for far too long now.

The other part was that he was both amused and annoyed by the elder mage’s motherly concern for the state of his soul.

Even the more nurturing of the whores who had raised him had always treated the children in the brothel more like pets than like sons or daughters. They were not extremely concerned with raising them to be good citizens, or productive members of society. Later the Crows, of course, did whatever was necessary to strip them of the morals of the ‘common’ people.

So to have someone quizzing him about whether or not he felt remorse, whether he knew right from wrong, was…novel, certainly. However, his intuition told him there was something more going on here, so he wasn’t entirely convinced it was all for his benefit.

Oh, he was sure that she was truly good-intentioned. It’s just he had never known anyone who was so _devoutly_ good who wasn’t also trying to repent for something. He was certain she must have some blemish in her past that would account for the valiant effort she put in to keep them all on such a straight path, but it was hidden so well behind the façade she had constructed from age and Chantry doctrine that he couldn’t guess at what it was.

And that was the annoying part; that his sins were so easily accessible while whatever hers were they remained so very well hidden. So while she kept trying to get him to atone, he tried to fluster her as much as possible.

And truly, it _was_ a magnificent bosom.


	13. M is for Massage

It didn’t escape Zevran’s notice that the young Warden carried more than his share of their burdens on his slender shoulders. Every problem they encountered, Blight-related or not, was his to solve, and he felt personally responsible for the mental and physical well-being of everyone in their party. If he wasn’t somewhere in the camp listening attentively as one of his companions unburdened their soul he would be in his tent, pale magelight flickering as he hunched over some tome that they had found along the way, constantly seeking knowledge that could help them in their various quests.

While Zevran found this selflessness a little absurd, he also found himself wanting to do something to help ease the burden a little. And if that help came with the bonus of finally being able to discover what exactly was hidden beneath those robes, well, he had never claimed to be altruistic. So he approached his Warden at the campfire one evening with a solicitous offer to demonstrate the chirapsia skills he had learned in the brothel.

And apparently his lack of altruism was obvious, as Alim called him out on his intentions, while shyly accepting anyway. In fact, it rather seemed the young mage thought _massage_ was merely a euphemism, and not a prelude. So be it. Zevran smiled to himself as he thought that if that were the case, Alim had more than one surprise in store for him tonight.

Since Alim had been growing ever more receptive to his flirting he had anticipated that he would say yes tonight, and had prepared accordingly. Some of the other companions might find their tents short a fur or two, and he had filched a bottle of wine and a couple of mugs from Bodahn. Candles were a bad idea inside a tent, but Alim assured him it took no effort to summon a dim magelight and send it to hover off to one side of the fur-covered bedroll.

He could tell the young mage was trying to hide his nervousness as he tried to undress in a deliberately casual manner. His eyes kept flicking from the coverlet to the assassin and back again, and as his robe slipped down from his shoulders he turned his body in such a way so that he could hide himself a little without appearing too. Zevran found the attempt charming and became even more determined to focus on relaxing his Warden before anything else.

They had retired early, and the others were still gathered around the fire. Leliana had begun to softly sing an Orlesian ballad, and Zevran had to suppress a grin as he gestured for Alim to lie down on his stomach. At some point the bard had gotten over her own disappointment at not catching the Warden’s eye and had instead become supportive of the growing relationship between them. He had no doubt that she was purposefully helping to set the mood, and he vowed to repay her later.

After Alim was lying down the assassin draped one of the covers over him, drawing a mildly surprised look from the mage. He chuckled as he said,

“In order to truly relax the muscles it is important to keep warm.”

Quickly stripping off his own clothes and ignoring the warden’s raised eyebrow, he grabbed one of the vials he had set out earlier. Moving around to the young elf’s head, he poured some oil into his palm and then briskly rubbed his hands together. He then began to knead at his own shoulders and the base of his neck, working until he had rubbed most of the oil off of his fingers and his hands were warm.

Kneeling down so that he was sitting back on his heels, he adjusted Alim’s head so that it was turned to one side. He began by lightly rubbing one hand and then the other over his forehead from the top of his nose to his hairline. The young mage practically wilted into the bedroll, and Zevran knew he finally realized there was an actual massage involved in this massage.

He began scraping his fingers through his hair and over his scalp, just firmly enough to move the skin a little bit. He moved from the top of his head to the base and then back again, enjoying the sight and feel of the auburn hair sliding between his fingers. Leaning down, he kissed the tip of one ear before gently turning his head to the other side and beginning again. It was important to keep things even and not strain the muscles he was trying to heal.

Zevran then shifted around so that he was kneeling to one side, making sure that his hands or forearms or some other part of him stayed in contact with the warden’s skin the entire time. Often the seemingly innocuous touches seduced better than the deliberate ones. After warming some more oil between his palms he started caressing Alim’s back in long, steady strokes, slowly increasing the pressure with each downward stroke. Then he ran made circular motions with both hands on either side of his back, just barely scratching with the fingertips in order to waken and sensitize the skin. Although he wanted Alim to relax, his intent was to arouse and not put to sleep.

The bard had finished her fifth ballad and the group outside was listening to Alistair telling some story about the Chantry by the time he moved to straddle the mage just above his lower back. The mage didn’t even flinch at the feel of a naked assassin sitting on his bare skin, so the relaxation part of his plan was obviously working. He began kneading and pressing the mage’s slender but well-developed shoulders, which were completely knotted from stress. He alternately squeezed the flesh between his collarbones and shoulders and dug in with his thumbs, feeling out where each individual knot was.

Finding the largest lump, he rested the knuckles of two of his fingers on it and then leaned forward, letting his weight rest on the knot and holding it there for a long moment. At that, his warden let out a surprisingly loud groan of pleasure. For a moment all sounds from outside ceased, and then the silence was broken by a soft giggle and some loud throat clearing. When Alistair continued speaking his voice was much louder than before.

Zevran grinned but said nothing, concentrating on working the stubborn knot loose. Alternating between direct pressure, kneading and squeezing, and chopping along the elf’s nape and back with the sides of his hands he eventually worked most of the stress out. He had lost track of how long he had been at it, but by the silence outside and the weariness in his fingers he guessed it had been some time.

He once again ran his fingernails lightly up and down the entire back, noticing how it raised goosebumps all over the mage’s pale flesh. Scooting down so that he was now straddling the backs of Alim’s thighs, and careful not to put too much weight on him, he warmed up a little more oil between his hands. He grinned to himself again as he looked down and put each of his hands on a firm rounded buttock. All that walking had been good for something, it seemed. He began making circular motions with his hands moving in opposite directions. Then he put both hands at the base of one ass cheek and used his thumbs to make a roll of flesh that he gently pushed up towards the tailbone. This he repeated on the other cheek and continued to switch back and forth paying increasing attention to the lower back as he observed Alim’s reactions. Whenever he touched certain spots the mage made soft noises and squirmed his hips, so the assassin knew he had found a sweet spot.

He had intended to do a complete head-to-toe massage but he found those little whimpers and twitches hard to resist, so he decided to skip a few steps. While his fingers continued stroking just above the mage’s tailbone he bent and kissed along the crease where ass met leg. He softly nipped his way up one cheek and then began kissing those sweet spots he had discovered. The little whimpers gave way to open mouthed panting and a few actual groans.

Sitting up and shifting all his weight onto his knees, he gently pulled at Alim to indicate that it was time to turn over. The mage settled onto his back with a contented sigh, his growing arousal indicating that he approved of the assassin’s massage techniques very much. Ignoring that for now, Zevran crouched over him and rubbed his chest with broad circular strokes and then lightly rubbed from the nipples up to his armpits. Alim actually giggled a bit when he touched that area, putting a smile on the Antivan’s face.

The assassin knelt up a little so that he could place one hand on each shoulder and then, while squeezing gently, pull down along each arm. He repeated that a few times and then used both of his hands to wrap around one arm while gently pulling. When he got to the hand he lifted it and using his thumbs he lightly rubbed circles in the palm. Then he took each finger one by one and wrapped his hand around it, tugging softly until his hand slipped off the end. Zevran slid his index finger along the skin that stretched between each of the mage’s fingers, then bent and nibbled on the fingertips, paying special attention to Alim’s reactions as he knew that the hands were another often ignored erogenous zone. Shifting his weight, he repeated this on the other arm, only this time instead of just nibbling on the fingertips he slowly drew one into his mouth and sucked as he drew it back out again while he looked hotly at his warden.

Alim’s chest was heaving slightly, and his blown pupils made his sky blue eyes look almost black as he said thickly,

“So…so we’re done with the massage part now?”

Leaning down so that his lips were almost touching the mage’s Zevran grinned and said wickedly,

“Oh no, my dear warden, I promised you an _Antivan_ massage. The best part has yet to begin.”


	14. N is for Nuncio

In Antivan, _Nuncio_ meant messenger.

The Crows were quite fond of sending messages, often very pointed ones, and Nuncio was a name that the assassins commonly used to underscore that such a message was being sent. When he had discovered that it was a “Nuncio” who was seeking him in Kirkwall, he had pondered what this particular message meant.

As Zevran crouched in the mouldering darkness of a cave high above the Dalish camp, watching what he assumed was the Champion of Kirkwall and her companions demolishing a varterral, he thought he understood. His former guildmates were well aware that he had powerful connections within Fereldan. After all, the Warden-Commander and Hero of the Blight was known to be his lover and the newly crowned king was one of his former companions.

It seemed the Crows wanted him to understand that they too, could call upon powerful friends, even when he was far from Anitva.

Zevran however, was familiar with this particular “Nuncio” and knew exactly what sort of lies he would have told to get this Champion on his side; _Antivan noble_ , _searching for a dangerous murderer_ and so forth. He knew they would have to be lies, because from what he had heard from the Dalish, this Marion Hawke was more interested in righting wrongs than she was in gold. Such a person, he was certain, would not be pleased to discover she had been deceived.

This Nuncio and the Masters who had sent him were surely hoping that Hawke would either attack him on sight or just not believe anything he had to say in his own defense. He smiled to himself and confidently stepped out of the darkness towards the group, knowing that his former masters had underestimated his charm, just as they had underestimated everything else about him.


	15. O is for Offering

Zevran is bemused by his nest’s first visit to the Chantry; it is his first visit as well, and he is not sure what is expected of them. He follows the others as they each select a red candle, the apprentices who are familiar with this ritual leading while others like himself hang back, watching what they do out of the corners of their eyes.

Keeping their heads lowered humbly, they set their lit offerings down in front of the altar and retreat a few paces as the Sisters begin the Chant. Feeling stiff and awkward, he wonders irreverently why they would honor Andraste with lit candles when she was burnt to death. Wouldn’t it be more to her liking if they blew the flames _out?_

As Zevran breathes in the scented air he feels himself relaxing; there is something oddly familiar and comforting here. Much like the brothel he was raised in, it is a place run by women to serve the needs of mankind, a sanctuary.

Oh, he is old enough to know the difference, and to recognize the blasphemy of his thoughts, but that doesn’t change the truth of incense laden air, colorful draperies, and soft voices whispering in shadowed corners. The presence of the single Brother he has seen does nothing to disrupt the feminine atmosphere.

The Mothers have the confident, businesslike air of those who know how to handle people and how to get things done; a murder of Crows in their midst doesn’t cause even an eyeblink of surprise. The younger Sisters talk behind their hands and stare in open curiosity until they are called back to their duties with a firm word.

As they take their leave at the end of the service, Zevran catches the eye of the prettiest one and gives her his most engaging grin; the smile that, in the brothel, usually earned him an extra treat or saved him from trouble. She twinkles back at him and pats his blond head as he passes, then leans over to make a murmured comment to the Sister next to her. He can’t catch what is said, but the giggles that follow are as reassuring as everything else in this place.

He thinks that perhaps, if he weren’t meant to be a Crow, being a Brother of the Chantry would be the next best thing.


	16. P is for Potential

Seating himself cross legged beside the fire, Zevran unwrapped the soft cloth from around the bar of gold and held it flat in the palm of his hand, admiring its lustrous surface.

It was deceptively heavy; even though he knew how much gold weighed it was always a surprise when he actually held it. He ran his fingertips over the smooth top, marveling at how it had managed to remain unmarked for Maker knows how long. The reflected blaze gave it a reddish cast that looked molten, as if it would burn when you touched it, but it was actually quite cool.

It was beautiful and perfect just as it was; but if you thrust it into the hottest fire and hammered at it until it lost its original shape it would only become more beautiful. Earrings that could adorn a lover’s ears, a goblet to hold a king’s wine, armor that would only be worn by a glorious fool.

So much potential.

The thought was inexplicably soothing and he sat and watched the flames dance in the metal until his eyes grew tired, then he carefully re-wrapped it and returned to his tent.


	17. Q is for Quiet

No one would have guessed how much Zevran enjoyed the quiet.

Oh, as an assassin they expected him to be good at stealth, at silence, but given his penchant for conversation none would have supposed one of his favorite things was to climb to a high place with a good view and just bask in the quiet.

So much of being an assassin was about being a performer, about being able to say, or do, or be whatever it took to slip in under a mark’s guard. He was used to filling the silence when in company, not too much to be annoying, but just enough to be charming. Words were a disguise, a lure, a trap; they were the sweetness that covered the taste of poison.

It was not very different in the presence of other Crows either, where everything was braggadocio and posturing. You were only as good as you said you were; you could only stay on top by claiming your place there, loudly and often. Staying quiet was what drew the attention of your peers, and their attention was exactly what you did not want. Words were a weapon, a shield, a wall; they kept dangers at a distance.

Now amongst Alim and his companions he found he could not shake the habits of old. When he was by himself the quiet was simply...quiet. Silence was an open space that allowed him to stretch out and relax. When he was with others the quiet was like a weight on his shoulders, pressing down on him, a force to which he must respond. Conversation was an obligation, a compulsion.

Accordingly, he still slipped away from time to time to find a perch where he could observe and just be mute. He had thought no one paid any attention to this habit, but he should have known that nothing escaped his Warden’s notice.

He was seated on a rock high above Redcliffe when Alim came up to join him. The other elf sat close enough that their sides touched, and he joined Zevran in gazing at the city below.

Zevran tensed his shoulders in preparation, but the silence remained silence.

After a long moment he turned his head toward his Warden, caught that blue gaze with his own, and smiled.

And said nothing.


	18. R is for Reputation

Zevran hated being surprised. Worse than being surprised, he hated that feeling of embarrassment from getting caught flat-footed. Worst of all was that the source of both surprise and embarrassment came from having his own weapons turned against him.

That _damnable_ bard.

He had made the mistake of falling into a routine and not paying as careful attention to his other companions as he should. He had established a pattern where he made outrageous passes at all the companions, excepting Oghren, and they ignored, threatened, got outraged as required. He knew that none of them were the least bit interested in sleeping with him, and he preferred it that way, although he’d rather not look too closely at why that was so.

So, when that red-haired rogue caught him off guard with a demand that he strip down he did not do as he should have and shucked his leathers right on the spot. It should have been immediately obvious that she was only trying to turn the tables on him, and as he had nothing to hide, he could have debunked that ridiculous slander against elves quite quickly.

Leliana had always been so sincere, so there was a moment where he hesitated before replying and _that_ was his undoing.

She was different now, and the ex-Templar was different as well, and they had been changing right in front of him and he hadn’t noticed because he was so focused on the changes that had been going on within himself...

A dangerous state to be in. There was no excuse for being unobservant, and that kind of laxity could get himself or his Warden killed.

He supposed he actually owed Leliana a thank you for inadvertently pointing out his growing heedlessness.

Still, that didn’t mean he was going to stop disrobing in the middle of camp before his evening bath. Some challenges simply could not go unanswered.


	19. S is for Sebastian

While waiting for the Champion to finish looting the Nuncio’s camp he ends up standing next to the handsome blue-eyed archer in the blinding white armor. After giving him the once-over...habit, really...he simply can’t resist.

“You know, in Antiva we have a saying. _Por debajo del ombligo no es ni la religión ni la verdad_. Below the navel there is neither religion nor truth.”

The Starkhaven Prince gives him a bemused look, before replying in his soft brogue, “That is one of the reasons I won’t be venturing back to Antiva.” After a moment’s thought he continues, “What made you think of that?”

Zevran’s eyes flick downward towards the rather unsettling accessory the prince is wearing before gazing back into eyes that were the exact color of memory, and of yearning.

“Oh, nothing really. I was just...thinking of home.”


	20. T is for Taliesin

He meets Taliesin when he leaves the apprentices behind and graduates from the nest to his first real cell. It is still communal lodgings, the _creance_ , but at least here the quarters are nicer and they sleep only two to a room.

As a mark of his new status he is to be given his first Crow tattoo, and Taliesin is the one sent to administer the needles. The first tattoo is always in a well-hidden place, he is told, with the placement of the markings growing bolder as the assassin's skills increase. If he had ever been modest, he is no longer, and he has his clothing off before the human is even completely in the room.

The boy chuckles at the sight, the deep sound immensely pleasing, and after he has been inked Taliesin takes him to a local tavern favored by the Crows where they spend the first of many nights together drinking and causing mischief.

Taliesin is only four years older than he is, but in Crow years it seems more like a decade. He has much to share about what it takes to be considered a force among his fellow assassins, and in the beginning Zevran is happy for the guidance.

As time passes they grow used to sharing with one another; they share bids on contracts, bottles of Anitvan brandy, and women. One night, after they polish off the last of the purloined brandy and find that nothing better is in the offing, they even share each other.

Zevran, who is usually able to find pleasure even when the situation isn’t conducive to it, does not find it a pleasing experience at all. He doesn’t really care to examine why, but he knows he does not want to repeat it.

After that, things are different between them. Taliesin is more demanding of his time, more critical of his choices, more…clingy. He speaks of them sharing an apartment once they are no longer required to live in the _creance_ and Zev, taken off-guard, just gives an evasive response and changes the subject. Soon the pattern of Taliesin pushing and Zevran pulling away becomes the habit of their relationship. Zevran is willing to accept the blame. He often tells himself that, as a true Crow should be, he is not the type to form attachments. Although the older man still pushes from time to time, eventually Taliesin seems to accept that he is as close to Zevran as anyone will ever get. Zevran, for his part, accepts that as well.

Until, of course, he meets Rinna.


	21. U is for Unexpected

When Zevran asked Leliana what it was that was in the package that put such an _interesting_ expression on her face she just smiled and said “Oh, it is only a teaching tool for bards, from Orlais. Bodhan had picked it up in our travels and was a bit befuddled by it, so I have offered to take it off his hands”. 

Like a fool he did not pursue it, and he thought nothing more of it as they packed up camp, preparing for another day’s journey to find the Dalish camp. 

He thought nothing of it later when, after a skirmish with yet another band of darkspawn, he noticed Akim walking with an odd hitch to his gait. Although he asked his warden to let Wynne see to it, Alim insisted it was nothing and grew quite snappish about it.

So his surprise was genuine that night when he helped Alim to disrobe only to discover that his warden’s smallclothes suddenly appeared to be made of metal. Metal, and more locks than was strictly reasonable for such a small device. He was familiar with such things, of course, but until now _he_ had always been the prize that was locked away.

He breath left him with a hiss as he cursed himself for once again underestimating the bard. Who was rapidly becoming one of his favorite people, although he would never say so, as it would just spoil the fun.

Instead he began to remove his own clothing while giving his warden his best seductive look, “Surely _all_ those locks aren’t necessary?”

Alim’s grin was wicked in response as he said, “I was just remembering that you had bragged about your skill with lock picks, yet I’ve never actually seen you pick a lock.”

Zevran shook his head in mock despair as he gestured toward the awaiting picks but made no move to actually grab one of them. “So you think to tempt and seduce me, leaving me unsatisfied until I am able to get you free? You and I both are in for a long night of frustration, my dear warden. You moreso than me, I am afraid.” 

Heedless of his nakedness he moved closer, his voice dropping into a purr as he continued, “I admit I have really never had much occasion to pick locks, since I always found more creative ways to have doors opened for me.” 

Keeping his gaze locked onto Alim’s he slowly, deliberately ran his hand down his own chest and then took his cock in hand with an exaggerated little gasp of satisfaction. “But with you locked in there, and me out here, I think perhaps _I_ am not the real victim in this game.”

He watched, greatly amused, as Alim’s eyes filled with understanding and then chagrin as he realized how neatly he had been snared in his own...no, in Leliana’s, trap.


	22. V is for Vanity

He only tried the armor on at Alim’s insistence. Between his new obsession with training as an arcane warrior and preparing for the fight against the Archdemon, his dear warden had become concerned that rogue’s armor was not really meant for the battlefield and had requested that Zev try something a little more concealing than a “leather skirt.” Which is how he found himself in the Warden’s room in Redcliffe castle, gawping in horror at his reflection in the looking glass.

He just looked so...oddly proportioned. This armor was so much bulkier than he was used to, and not in any way that was flattering. Wearing the helmet, he felt as if he had been stuffed into a chest and left peering out the keyhole. How did anyone see in these things? As for the rest of it, he looked squat and ungainly; one might even say stumpy. He looked...he looked like _Oghren_.

It wasn't the heaviest armor, only the heaviest that Alim thought he could get away with. In time, he might even learn to fight in it as effectively as in his normal armor, as it did not hamper his speed too much. His real strength was in his speed. La mejor armadura es mantener fuera del alcance, after all. But still, he would not be wearing it again. 

Caution was one thing, but assets like his should never be kept hidden.


	23. W is for Warden

He had aged well; he could admit that with no modesty whatsoever. His still-blond hair tangled in the cold wind that swept over the peak and he quickly moved to huddle in the lee of the monument, but he had climbed the mountain path as quickly as ever and had arrived at the top without any shortness of breath.

Zevran moved from the shadow of the monument to look back down over the valley, toward the settlement that had sprung up where the village of Haven once was. Now it was full of pilgrims and curious travelers, although in his cynical view the bones of the High Dragon and the rumors of hidden treasure were as much of a draw as a vase full of holy dust.

How he and his warden had laughed when this statue was built. It was only five short years ago, but it may as well have been a lifetime. Fereldan had finally begun to prosper again, and the grateful citizens had felt that something needed to be done to honor their Hero. The dwarven craftsmen from Orzammar were more than willing, and to Alim’s chagrin they had erected a statue, in true paragon style, at the site of “one of his greatest triumphs.” 

Alim had thought it ridiculous, and even vaguely blasphemous, but since he didn't mind stepping on the Chantry’s toes he had accepted it graciously, saving his laughter for when he and the assassin were alone. It was the memory of that laughter that had compelled him to climb up here, compelled his gaze to trace the blocky lines of the statue while remembering the graceful shape of the one who had inspired it.

Fate truly was was the trickiest of all bitches. He had sought his death from this warden, and he had gotten a reprieve that had turned into something like a miracle, but only for 15 years.

15 good years, one year following another season-by-season until life had a pattern that he could see stretching out in front of him as well as behind. By the time Alim had his Calling two years ago, there were so many other things woven into that pattern it never even occurred to him to end his own life. He would never love another as he had Alim, but his warden had helped him learn to love living, to care deeply about the fates of a few people he had grown to think of as friends.

Because of Alim he had family, and not only did he have them, he had learned to acknowledge how much he treasured having them. He rested his hand against the base of the statue and bowed his head into the crook of his arm. After a few long minutes he straightened up and wiped his eyes, and turned to head back down the mountain.

The pattern would continue, it would simply be missing its brightest thread.


	24. X is for Pirate Booty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time finding an "x" word that seemed right for Zevran. My Zev has never met Xenon, and anything else I thought of, like xenophile, just didn't seem to fit. But then I thought X is a special letter...it doesn't have to be a _word._

“ You've never told me the story behind this one. It's not really as...elegant as most of your tattoos.”

Alim’s fingers trace the black lines with a quick, criss-crossing motion and then he pats the ass beneath them and laughs...well, no actually it’s a giggle. His blue eyes have a soft, unfocused quality that make Zevran very glad that he had stashed away enough of the Antivan brandy to get his warden completely tossed.

“There is not really much of a story to tell, my dear warden.” he says. He starts to roll over, thinking to pull Alim down on top of him, but the mage stops him by leaning down to press his lips where his hand had been a moment before.

“X marks the spot.” He laughs again, so amused by his own joke that he falls forward across the assassin’s back. Zev memorizes the sound; not for sentimental reasons, of course, just so he can do the perfect impression when he is teasing his warden about it tomorrow.

He waits until Alim has himself under control again and then says wryly, “Yes, well I think that was the idea.” 

His warden just looks at him uncomprehendingly until he finally relents.

“Fine. This...” a vague wave towards his own rear, “ is what happens when you get drunk with a pirate and allow her to give you a tattoo.”


End file.
